


Baby Daddy

by beetle



Category: Star Trek
Genre: AU, F/M, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:23:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonary McCoy gets some startling news. Relevant parties are advised, drama happens. Crack, with a straight face. MPREG.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Baby Daddy 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I didn't invent this, nor do I own it.  
> Notes/Warnings: Set post movie by a few years. Mpreg. Crack-angst . . . crangst.

“Hey . . . buddy. . . .”  
  
  
The soft, wary voice immediately follows the soft, wary footsteps into his cubicle. Leonard rolls his eyes and glares up at the ceiling panels, doing his best to ignore Jim Kirk. He's had almost five years of practice at it, so he's pretty good, by now.  
  
  
The biobed dips slightly on his left side and a warm hand touches his own for a moment. Because Jim's had a similar amount of practice ignoring the fact that Leonard is ignoring him. As per usual, they have what Grampa McCoy mighta called a Mexican standoff (though Lord only knows what a 'Mexica' is).  
  
  
“So,” Jim says heartily, as if his five year mission is to be the most insipid jackass ever to captain a starship. “How're we feeling?”  
  
  
“We,” Leonard says without inflection, which is normally enough of a warning sign for Jim to high-tail it out of striking range. Not this time, however, and it's a good thing for him Leonard's too tired and gobsmacked to do more than think murderous thoughts. “ _We_  are just dandy, Jim. 'Cordin' to M'Benga,  _we_  are about as healthy as can be expected for a man who's two months pregnant.”  
  
  
“Jesus . . . Jesus, Bones--” Jim sighs, and Leonard resolutely does  _not_  look at him. Looking at Jim is pretty much what caused this mess in the first place. Leonard's always been a sucker for that damned devil-may-care grin and those blue-blue eyes . . . always had to work hard not to fall into them, then work even harder to climb out when he fails. . . .  
  
  
He starts when Jim's hand settles softly on his stomach--reluctantly lowers his gaze and sits up on his elbows.  
  
  
Jim's watching him like he expects Leonard to give birth right then, clearly torn between curiosity and horror. Leonard's just barely far enough along to be getting morning sickness, and suddenly he really wants to puke. Knows he'd aim without hesitation for Jim.  
  
  
“Does . . . are you gonna tell anyone besides me?” Jim asks, like a man bracing himself for the worst. There's worry in his eyes, but not the kind that Leonard'd been hoping for, and that nauseated feeling intensifies. For a moment, Leonard wants to curl up in a ball and just  _cry_.  
  
  
Not that crying ever solved anything. “M'Benga had to inform Starfleet Command, of course, me bein' the first pregnant man in human history. Though I do apologize I hadda go and get knocked up on your watch.”  
  
  
"Sorry, I--sorry, okay? It just kinda threw me for a loop--"  
  
  
"Oh, well, I'm also  _very_  sorry  _my_  pregnancy threw  _you_  for a loop. I do so hate to inconvenience you, Jim."  
  
  
"Oh, shut up, Bones." Jim sighs and when his hand starts moving, slowly, soothingly, Leonard only just notices it's still there. "Really, are you gonna . . . tell anyone else?"  
  
  
“You mean, am I gonna spread the joyous news hither and yon? Hah. I'm sure that if I decide to keep this . . . baby . . . I'll be shuttled off to some Federation medical facility faster than you can say up-the-duff, so, no. I'm under no obligation to advise anyone else 'cept the other father. And my commanding officer, of course.”  
  
  
Jim's smile is bitter and ironic. “Of course.”  
  
  
"And I'm not even sure I'm gonna go through with this, I mean . . . it'd be beyond crazy to keep this baby, no matter how miraculous."  
  
  
“Crazy isn't even the word . . . Jesus, Bones! You don't even have a freakin'  _womb_. Correct me if I'm wrong, but that's a pretty important part of the pregnancy recipe, right?" For a moment  _Jim_ looks like he's about to cry. Leonard wonders how many times he'll have to lose his best friend before finally losing him completely. "And ovaries, and a uterus, and a birth canal, and a, uh--”  
  
  
“Yes, I know how pregnancy normally works, Jim.” Leonard peevishly smacks Jim's hand away from his stomach. Hard. But a few seconds later it comes back. It's strangely comforting, despite . . . everything. “Somehow, since my last physical, my body's spontaneously generated all those things. 'Cept the birth canal and the vagina. M'Benga doesn't know how or why, and neither do I.”  
  
  
“Fuck.”  
  
  
“Yep, that's generally how babies are made, Cap'n. Even freak-babies, like this one, although . . . I guess there  _ain't_  a baby like this one.”  
  
  
“Don't--don't call it a freak, Bones, Jesus,” Jim says, sounding uncomfortable and offended. He's looking everywhere but at Leonard; at least at first. Then his eyes skitter almost unwillingly back to his stomach and he smiles, just a little. "All babies are perfect. Or so I've heard."  
  
  
“It ain't  _perfect_ , Jim--it's the biggest anomaly in the history of our species! It's a--”  _mutant_ , Leonard thinks but doesn't say. Can't  _make_  himself say. Life's gonna heap enough cruel names on this poor bastard's shoulders, assuming it gets carried to term. It'd just be cruel if the first names he got called came from his moth--fath--whatever Leonard is.  
  
  
“It's not the Apocalypse, Bones, it's a . . . a baby. Just a baby,” he says, half disturbed, half laughing. Shakes his head and risks Leonard's gaze again. “ _Fuck_ , there's a  _baby_  in there. Are you gonna keep it.”  
  
  
Leonard lays back down again and closes his eyes. Lets Jim's hand soothe him and tries not to think too hard. “I shouldn't. I'm not ready to be a father again. Or a mother, for that matter. This kid can't and shouldn't exist.”  
  
  
“Well,  _can't_  and  _shouldn't_  don't mean shit, now, do they?” There's shifting around and before Leonard knows it, Jim's nudging him over, and laying down next to him. Startled, he looks into Jim's eyes and Jim looks right back. Neither of them say anything for a long time, Jim just caresses his stomach and smiles.  
  
  
Leonard pretends for a few precious minutes that they're back at the Academy, laying in bed together, talking about the future. . . .  
  
  
“I'm not ready to be a father--to be  _this child_ 's father,” he whispers, and Jim's smile grows a bit wider. He leans in till their noses brush.  
  
  
“Neither am I. But maybe . . . maybe we could figure it out together,” he says, and . . . a bunch of pieces have clearly fallen together in the wrong way. The  _wrongest_  way, and God  _damn_  James T. Kirk to Hell for coming over all sensitive and responsible  _now_.  
  
  
“Jim--”  _where the_ fuck _were you two months ago with this concerned, compassionate lover bullshit? Where was_ this _Jim Kirk when I needed him?_  He leans away for breathing room and thinking space, but Jim's right there, a familiar feel and scent that's all but designed to drive Leonard to distraction. “Jim, God, there's been a big misunderstanding--”  
  
  
“Yeah, there has, Bones, and the misunderstanding was all mine.” Jim moves even closer, till Leonard can't see that too scared, too vulnerable smile. Till all he  _can_  see is cool, electric-blue eyes. Then Jim's kissing him gently, sweetly, like he never has before. “Look, I know we decided to keep things strictly platonic between us. That we decided it was for the best, but . . . there isn't a day that's gone by since that I haven't wondered if maybe I was making the biggest mistake of my life. Sometimes--”  
  
  
“Jim, you need to stop speaking  _now_. I'm  _not_  kidding.” When Leonard shakes his head and tries to turn away, Jim kisses him again, hot and urgent, but still sweet and gentle. Just the kiss Leonard's been waiting five years for, and it's  _amazing_ \--the kind of kiss one doesn't get, or even see outside of old movies, and it's. . . .  
  
  
. . . two months too goddamn late.  
  
  
“See, I know I'm  _not_  ready to be anyone's dad. We  _both_  know that. But you? You're gonna be an _amazing_  dad.” It's impossible to talk when Jim Kirk's bent on keeping you from talking. Leonard can also admit to himself that he's simply savoring probably the last such kiss they'll ever share, and the way Jim's hand is clenched just slightly, so possessively on his stomach. “So if you decide to have this baby, I'd like to try, to . . . be there for it . . . and you.”  
  
  
“Listen to me, Jim--” but Jim's looking into his eyes again, and damn the man, but he almost looks . . . thrilled. Scared shitless, but thrilled. Like he'd looked on the day Enterprise officially became his.  
  
  
“We could . . . you know . . . be a family,” he says hopefully, and any lingering resentment Leonard bore Jim for the way their relationship (and to a certain painful extent, their friendship) imploded two months ago, it's gone like it never was. Because Jim Kirk is, in his own charming and callous way, a titan. A man of great deeds and chink-free armor.  
  
  
He  _should_  be, anyway, but all Leonard sees in front of him at the moment is a Lost Boy trying to create the kind of family that just doesn't happen in the Never-Never Land he's king of.  
  
  
Leonard shoves Jim away and sits up, unable to look him in the eye. When Jim tries to pull him back into his arms, he shrugs away the hands he's missed. Or tries. But Jim's persistent. Holds him tight and close, and . . . there was a time Leonard might've sold his soul to feel Jim's arms around him again, but that time's passed.  
  
  
“Let go of me, goddamnit!”  
  
  
“What--are you mad at me? I mean, maybe we shouldn't have been bare-backing, but c'mon, Bones. We've been doing it for  _years_ , and no one coulda predicted  _this_!” One hand drops back down to Leonard's stomach again, sure and possessive. Jim's grinning--Leonard can hear it in his voice--and Leonard feels a strange mix of resentment, regret and sadness that makes him want to be anywhere but here, and with anyone but his best friend. . . .  
  
  
It's a horrible feeling. Like being sliced open, and having internal organs replaced with anxiety and sadness. But Leonard hasn't cried since he was a kid, and he ain't gonna cry now.  _Especially_ not now, in front of Jim.  
  
  
“No, I ain't  _mad_  at you, I . . . Jim, M'Benga notified the other father.  _And_  . . . he notified my captain,” Leonard says quietly, forcing himself to catch Jim's gaze and hold it steadily. Till realization penetrates whatever visions of fatherhood are dancing through Jim's head.  
  
  
If Leonard never sees Jim's face fall that way again, he'll die a happy man. But in the end, Jim's _Jim_ , and he's got a better gameface than most Vulcans. He pulls it together so fast, Leonard wouldn't even be sure of what he saw, but for the way that carefree look doesn't get within spitting distance of Jim's eyes.  
  
  
“Right. Okay,” he says, then laughs a little, a strange, rapid-fire  _ah-ha-ha_. His arms rebound away like Leonard's a hot rock. “Okay, then, I guess that means  _I'm_  off the hook and some other poor bastard's on.”  
  
  
“I didn't mean for any of this to happen. The pregnancy, the . . . what you thought. Any of it. I apologize,” Leonard adds lamely, wishing he had a blanket or something. He's always felt cold whenever Jim lets him go. He suspects that a lifetime between embraces wouldn't change that.  
  
  
“No, hey, it's cool.” Jim's standing up, eyes once again darting everywhere but Leonard's face, and mentally? He's already gone. Galaxies and galaxies away. “I should probably, uh, get going so you can tell the other . . . dad. Unless you've told him already?”  
  
  
Shaking his head no, Leonard tries to smile. “Aside from being my captain, you're still, and always will be my best friend. I asked that you be notified first.”  
  
  
“Right. Captain, best friend, just not your baby-daddy, I get it. No, it's okay. Really.” Jim cranks that big smile up even bigger, and this situation? Is the antithesis of okay, Leonard knows. What he doesn't know is how to fix it, short of a time machine.  
  
  
Not that he's responsible for fixing a goddamned  _thing_. If Jim wants to blame someone for this damned baby not being his, he doesn't have to look any farther than the nearest goddamned _mirror_.  
  
  
“ _You_  were the one who said we were in too deep, and that maybe we should just go back to bein' friends- _without_ -benefits.” And how much'd that hurt? How much does it  _still_  hurt? He may not be angry anymore--not exactly--but he's not gonna let Jim make him the bad-buy ex, either. “I told you I  _loved_  you, that you were the person I wanted to spend my life with, and  _you_  pretty much said, 'gee, Bones, I'm flattered, but no.' Remember?”  
  
  
“Yes. I remember what I said,” Jim snaps and paces out of the cubicle. Paces back in, that gameface gone again, and replaced by a defensive, angry,  _hurt_  expression that still has the power to make Leonard feel like a jerk, never mind that this is  _Jim_ , not Jocelyn. “It sure didn't take you long to find someone else. Are you even sure  _he's_  the father, whoever he is? I mean, up until that last fight we were fucking pretty much constantly. Even after the fight, we--” that hurt expression changes to something calculating, sultry, and possessive. “Talk about things I never thought I'd say, but--if fucking could ever get a  _guy_  pregnant, the last time we fucked would _definitely_  have gotten the job done.”  
  
  
Determinedly not blushing, Leonard glares--not that that's ever worked on Jim. "You're so goddamn crass."  
  
  
"You like it when I'm crass. Want a demonstration to remind you just how much you like it?" Jim smirks. Does something that could only be classified as galaxy-class eye-fucking, because he knows  _exactly_  what it does to Leonard. Uses the moments of confused arousal and wavering to move closer again. Not kissing-close, but close enough for Leonard to catch his scent, and lean into the touch that ghosts across his cheek.  
  
  
“Bones, are you  _sure_  this isn't my baby,” he asks quietly, this heretofore unexpected  _want_ making his voice falter in a way it rarely does. Leonard can only reflect that if he knows Jim Kirk better than anyone, then no one  _really_  knows Jim Kirk at all.  
  
  
“I'm sure.” He catches Jim's hand and kisses the palm, and letting it go with as much finality as he can muster. Without looking up to see it, he can feel the change in Jim's regard, from confiding and charming, to resigned and grim. Somber, almost to the point of reserve. “M'Benga ran a DNA test. I know who the other father is, and . . . it ain't you.”  
  
  
“Oh. Alright, then.” Jim steps back. Then back some more, till he's barely still in the cubicle. But Sickbay's empty, except for Chapel and M'Benga, who already know enough of Leonard's business that eavesdropping would net them nothing.  
  
  
He watches Jim pluck at the hem of his shirt--Jim Kirk  _never_  fidgets--and tries to will away the nausea, which is back with a vengeance. He doesn't know if lying it all back would make him feel better or worse, but  _Leonard McCoy_  never does anything less than complete honesty, and they _both_  know that. Anyway, by now the other father's been notified. Should be showing up any minute. “I'm sorry, Jim. I really am.”  
  
  
“Why? There's nothing to be sorry for, Bones. I dragged my feet, and a better man won. Life's like that, sometimes.” Jim shrugs and shoves his hands into his pockets. Watches Leonard for a few seconds then smiles again. For real this time, though it's the most miserable smile Leonard's ever seen. “I guess, uh, congrats. I meant what I said before, about you being a great dad, and . . . congratulations.”  
  
  
“What, on bein' a bona-fide miracle or on givin' birth to one in seven months?” Leonard grumbles, and that smile gets a bit less horrible. No, their friendship ain't in  _great_  shape, and may not be for a long time. But it ain't  _dead_ , either, and never will be for lack of trying. “Not that I know if I even wanna keep it, I mean . . . the other father's probably not gonna be jumpin' for joy. Although I could be wrong, weird goddamn Russian. . . .”  
  
  
" _Russian_?" Jim demands, squinting and suspicious. "Okay, if he's Russian, other-dad is one of two guys, and I just married Yeoman Haussman and Ensign Kuznetsova last Saturday, so the baby's other father is--"  
  
  
"Doctor! Doctor!" Ensign Chekov rounds the corner of the cubicle, a split-second behind his urgent bleating. His uniform is askew and his curly hair is unbrushed. He looks like he was just summoned from a sound sleep, and considering that his next shift starts in six hours, that's probably right. Last Leonard saw of Chekov, the kid was hogging two-thirds of his narrow bed, and nine-tenths of the blankets.  
  
  
And snoring, to boot.  
  
  
Now, he doesn't look nearly so relaxed. He looks frantic and worried, and he barely notices Jim enough to snap to a hasty attention, before making his way to Leonard's side and sitting exactly where Jim sat.  
  
  
“Is joke?” he asks, his voice shaking and eyes wide. He looks even younger than his not-quite-twenty years, if that's possible. And that thought leads to the first legitimate ray of sunshine Leonard's had in this crazy mess: if one of them had to get  _pregnant_ , better him than this damn _kid_  (who, unlike Jim, is happy to pitch  _and_  catch).  
  
  
“No, is  _not_  joke.” Leonard tries to smile, and Chekov tries to smile back, his blue eyes--not likely to breed truer than the McCoy brown--ticking to Leonard's stomach. There's a lot less  _try_ , and a lot more  _smile_  when he looks back up.  
  
  
“I am . . . going to be a papa?”  
  
  
Leonard nods once, and Chekov simply stares and stares . . . before grinning big and bright. “And you are healthy? And our baby is healthy?” he asks, then whoops when Leonard nods a third time. Says something in Russian that sounds . . . excited and happy.  
  
  
For the first time since he found out a few hours ago, Leonard allows himself to feel something other than anxiety and misery. Quite in spite of himself, he's charmed by Chekov's reaction, his optimism, his . . . touching naivete.  
  
  
“We are having a  _baby_ , oh, Doctor!” Chekov exclaims, hugging Leonard tighter than anyone'd have a right to expect from those long, rangy arms. Then he jumps up and back apologizing for squeezing so tight, asking if Leonard's okay, if he feels alright, if either he or the baby are distressed--  
  
  
“Park your ass, you ninny, I'm fine and so's this damn baby!” Leonard barks without bite, and Chekov grins sheepishly, sitting down again. He takes Leonard's hand gingerly and kisses it, cradling it against his cheek and looking more overjoyed than just about anyone Leonard's ever seen. Weird goddamn Russian.  
  
  
“My love, oh, my love . . . I love you so much.”  
  
  
Not the first time Chekov's said all that, but Leonard always pretends each time is the first. That makes it so much easier to overlook and dismiss. “Listen, don't get caught up in the excitement of bein' someone's  _papa_ , kid--”  
  
  
“But I want to  _marry you_. I think we should get married.”  
  
  
“--because me and this brat are probably gonna wind up spending the first years of its life on some Starfleet Medical Base, locked up like proper little guinea pigs,” Leonard adds, stepping as neatly as he's able over Chekov's proposal.  
  
  
“But at least if we are married, they cannot separate us. Wherever you and the baby go, as his other parent, I'm entitled to go with you and look after you.” Chekov kisses Leonard's hand again, lingeringly. “Please, Leonard. I have never wanted anything as much as I want you. And now, our baby.”  
  
  
 _And I suppose the idea of, oh, say, terminating this freak-pregnancy, or simply giving the baby to Starfleet to study and raise hasn't occurred to you?_  Leonard almost snarks, but doesn't. Because neither option  _would_ 've occurred to Chekov.  
  
  
Leonard suspects that if he doesn't bring it up, it never will.  
  
  
Chekov lets go of Leonard's hand and touches his stomach, just the way Jim did. But with reverence instead of reluctance, and happiness instead of hesitation. Like he's been waiting all his life to find out he's Leonard McCoy's baby-daddy. “Oh,  _wow_. There is a  _baby_  inside here!” He's lit up, and glowing, and when he darts in to kiss Leonard--awkwardly and a little clumsily because of the angle and the excitement--Leonard is surprised he doesn't get a literal jolt, like an electrical surge.  
  
  
But there's plenty of  _figurative jolt_ , and that's just as good. Okay, partially because Chekov's hand is venturing quite a bit lower than where a baby bump would be, if Leonard had one. Venturing, stroking, squeezing--in general, just doing the kind of dirty cock-tease that can't be healthy for a man in Leonard's delicate condition. . . .  
  
  
Hormones. Damned pregnancy hormones. That's the  _only_  reason he gets so hard, so fast, and is all but dragging Chekov down on top of him.  
  
  
Neither of them notices when Jim slips quietly out of the cubicle.  
  
  
They only surface from their make-out meltdown when their eyes meet while Leonard's wrestling with Chekov's fly. Somehow, they're both missing their over-shirts, and Chekov is kneeling on the biobed between Leonard's legs.  
  
  
“Em.” Chekov blushes beet-red as his pants are carefully rezipped over his boxer-covered erection. Then he sits on his heels, grinning, and returns the favor.   
  
  
“Yeah,” Leonard agrees, clearing his throat and doing his own best not to blush. Which is damn near impossible when Chekov reaches out and caresses his face tenderly, before touching his stomach again, like a butterfly lighting on a rose petal.  
  
  
“ _Our baby,_  Leonard. How wonderful,” he murmurs, still nothing in him but wonder and happiness, and Leonard looks away from those horny, blissed-out eyes. They're a different blue than he's used to, but no less easy to get lost in. Especially now--though that, too, is probably mostly the hormones. Mostly.  
  
  
“You don't have to keep touching my stomach all the time, you know. You, uh . . . wouldn't be able to feel it moving around in there till at least the fifth month, or so.”  
  
  
“Pah! Our baby will have  _Chekov_  precociousness  _and_  McCoy  _contrariness_ , so he will be performing calisthenics by this time next week!” Chekov says proudly, and Leonard rolls his eyes. Smiles just a little.  
  
  
“God, I hope not. . . .”  
  



	2. Baby Daddy 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Baby-Daddy 1, Jim's favorite former fuck-buddy turned up preggers, and no one knows how. But the baby? So not Jim's, and that's of the good . . . right? And lightning wouldn't strike twice, would it? Written for captain_cadet's prompt of "Sulu/Kirk", and inspired by a comment from callmeliterator: "And poor Jim needs snuggles. Possibly from Sulu as a previous poster said, even if it is his own damn fault, everyone deserves a second chance at love."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not me, no, sir!  
> Notes/Warnings: Implied MPREG! Also crack. Not crack cocaine, but figurative crack. Lots of it.

"Wait--H, wait--"  
  
  
" _Wait_? The fuck?" Hikaru gazes up at Kirk incredulously, then looks back between them, once more, wincing at the pain in his neck, back and legs. Normally the strain of holding both of his legs up in such a position is mitigated by the fact that he's also getting nailed hard and fast to whatever flat surface he happens to be on (which is, in this case, the captain's ready-room table).  
  
  
Normally.  
  
  
Today, however--dab-smack in the middle of their tryst, however--sprawled on the cold-ass ready-room table, however--Jim Kirk's hard, thick, enviously  _gorgeous_  cock poised millimeters away from where it should be (and has been), however--Hikaru has to make himself count to ten. Well, to twenty, because this is  _Kirk_ , after all.  
  
  
In this time, Hikaru not only manages the strain, he even keeps this boiling, oh-my-God-what-the-fuck-RAGE from spilling into his voice.  
  
  
"C' _mon_ , whaddaya mean  _wait_  . . . I need you. . . ."  
  
  
Kirk swears, and pushes into him just a little ways, and they both hiss, because it's  _that_  good, and it gets better every time--or it would, if Kirk hadn't pulled right out again. Apologizing, and looking very much like a man about to climb off a ready-room table.  
  
  
"The  _fuck_!" Hikaru demands--possibly screeches. He gets irritable when his libido isn't fed, and normally Jim Kirk's cock is an eight course meal. Normally. "Okay, seriously, Captain? If you don't fucking  _fuck me_  right now, I'm gonna fucking  _kill_  you!"  
  
  
"You know, you're awful pushy for a bottom. And kinda mean," Kirk adds, all pouty about the face in a way that probably works with McCoy, and the other fifty people Kirk's no doubt fucking, but will  _never_  work with Hikaru Sulu.  
  
  
And anyway, Hikaru's got a face of his own. A murderously angry  _resolve-face_ , passed down from Maruyama mother to Maruyama daughter, much to the dismay of their men. Of course without sisters to pass it on to, the Dread Look was inherited by Hikaru. He uses it to his full advantage now, and Kirk freezes in the act of easing off the desk.  
  
  
"Look, H, I want you. I do. But--"  
  
  
It takes balls to wear the Dread Look while gazing through his spread, bent legs, his cock hugging his abdomen and lube leaking out of his ass--all under Kirk's blue, blue gaze. It takes huge,  _brass_  balls, and Hikaru's got 'em. Huge enough and brass enough, even, to match Kirk's. "Then get your ass back over here and  _fuck me_."  
  
  
If he were anyone else but Jim Kirk, that sort of shrinking wince might be considered  _quailing_. "But we oughtta be using some kinda protection. Something spermicidal--"  
  
  
"I'm sorry, have you been taken over by a pod person?" (This is not a rhetorical question. Enterprise has had some interesting adventures in the past three years.)  
  
  
"No, no, I'm not a pod person. I don't  _think_ \--" interesting adventures, indeed "--but we really should be careful."  
  
  
"Careful of what? Didn't you just have a physical, like, last month?"  
  
  
"Well, yeah--"  
  
  
"And I had mine four months ago, but you're the only person I've been having sex with for the past year, so, I'm as clean as you are."  
  
  
"Really?" When Hikaru nods, Kirk clears his throat. Smiles, like Hikaru's technical monogamy has anything to do with him. "That's. Um. Well. Still, I could wind up giving  _you_  something--"  
  
  
"Worse than Bolian Crotch Mites?" Hikaru raises his eyebrows, and lets go of his legs. Pushes down the shirts Kirk had hastily shoved up. It's a shame. He flies so much more smoothly with this particular edge taken off, and a good, dull twinge in places not mentioned in polite company to remind him.  
  
  
"Hey, I apologized about that, okay? She looked clean." Kirk settles on his heels, still between Hikaru's legs, looking like a chastened schoolboy. Hah, as if he was ever chaste. "Anyway, I mean something worse than the Clap."  
  
  
Sighing, Hikaru sits up, brushing his finger across the tip of Kirk's cock just to make him shiver, and regret growing a sense of caution  _now_. "What in hell's worse than the Clap?"  
  
  
"I--it's classified, actually," Kirk mumbles, his eyes slipping shut while Hikaru jerks him off, slowly, with a thumb-down Western Grip. Which Kirk  _really_  likes.  
  
  
Hikaru's never been easy to please, but Kirk? Gets so much from so little, it almost makes Hikaru . . . something to do with the warmer, fuzzier, mostly-buried side of his nature.  
  
  
"Look, H, I know that sometimes I'm not the most trustworthy guy out there--" Kirk smiles a little when Hikaru snorts, but doesn't slow or change his rhythm in anyway. "But trust me when I say that there's worse than STIs and crotch lice out there, H. And I don't wanna give it to you."  
  
  
Which is kinda sweet, really. At least if Kirk's telling the truth, and there's a good chance that he is. Kirk would have to have a  _damned_  good reason to turn down  _sex_ , and disease is definitely something he's got a healthy respect for. Hell, if he didn't, with the way he fucks around, he'd be dead a thousand times over.  
  
  
Hikaru reluctantly lets go of Kirk's cock. It looks the same as always--average length, but thick, red, uncut, impossibly perfect, despite all the action its seen . . . lube-wet and ready for more action--like it's never seen a day of discommode, and Hikaru wants it in him. Mouth or ass, he'd be content with either; it's the having that's important. "And you don't have any protection _here_? The place where you fuck half the Bridge crew?"  
  
  
Kirk blushes, and shakes his head. "Sorry."  
  
  
"Yeah, the whole fucking universe is sorry. I can't believe I'm gonna have to go through the rest of my shift fighting the Erection That Would Not Die. Move--get outta my way!" Hikaru orders, shoving at Kirk till he scrambles off the table, still looking glum. He hardens himself against that look, because he's  _not_  McCoy, to go falling for those sad blue eyes, only to wind up on the dumped end of a very public break-up.  
  
  
He pulls on his pants--since he and Kirk started fucking, he rarely bothers with underwear. Easy access is where it's at--and glares at Kirk, who's simply standing there, pants gone, boxer briefs around his ankles, dick still standing up like a flagpole. But his face . . . he looks like a whipped puppy.  
  
  
Hikaru doesn't like animals. Especially baby ones. And he definitely doesn't like Kirk--at least not since they started fucking.  
  
  
Telling himself that he's doing this  _only_  for himself, and  _not_  for Jim-fucking-Kirk, Hikaru shoves his pants down and kicks them off. Pulls off his shirts and flings them in Kirk's direction, like a stripper. Kirk catches the shirts, and almost smiles. Rolling his eyes, Hikaru marches toward the table and braces his hands on it. Can feel Kirk's eyes running up and down the back of him. Then Kirk's hands, and Kirk's body, and Kirk's sucking, bite-y kisses on his nape and neck.  
  
  
"We really shouldn't." Kirk leisurely pressing Hikaru into the table. Into the hand that's wrapping familiarly around Hikaru's cock. Pulling back out of the tight fist pushes him back against Kirk, and that hard, thick, gorgeous, ridiculous, off-limits cock, and he moans.  
  
  
"Fuck, that is  _priceless_ ," Hikaru exhales, because it is. Even just having Kirk like this, nestled between his cheeks is just . . . better than anything he's ever had with anyone else. As amazing a captain as Kirk is--and he  _is_  an amazing captain. It's kinda eerie that such a flaky, careless douchebag is also such a born leader, and that, in his professional capacity, is someone Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu would unquestioningly follow, even to his death--his strongest talent is, without a doubt, fucking. His instincts are pitch perfect, his technique flawless, his--  
  
  
\--mouth still moving. There're even words coming out. Not that Hikaru minds, with Kirk's thumb rubbing singlemindedly over the tip of his cock. ". . . wouldn't  _believe_  the day I've been having. . . ."  
  
  
"Mm."  _Would_  believe but probably wouldn't care. Much. But Kirk talks while he fucks, even when he's on his knees with a cock in his mouth. Of course that's it's own special brand of amazing. Kirk can be an  _excellent_  conversationalist. "Tell me about it."  
  
  
Kirk snorts--he's an insincere bastard, and so can spot that quality in others--and thrusts a little harder, a little faster, his cock brushing Hikaru's entrance repeatedly. He knows how to make a man  _beg_ , and incidentally, Hikaru likes being  _made_  to beg. Jim Kirk's the only person who's ever been able to get him to that point.  
  
  
Can even do that now, despite the fact that they're only simulation-fucking.  
  
  
"I wish I could tell you, but I can't. Part of the whole classified thing," Kirk says, his voice gone tight and absent at last. Which means he's getting to that place where all he's good for, literally, is fucking a body into the ground.  
  
  
Which might not be a great place to be, considering this worse-than-crotch-lice danger they may be in, but really, what could possibly be worse than that? Than STIs? Some other kind of disease, maybe? Hah, between the two of them, there's no disease McCoy and M'Benga can't beat.  
  
  
Well. Except that Antaran stomach flu that was going around a few weeks ago. And granted, it'd knocked down damn near half the ship before it was through, there were no  _life-threatening_ cases. Just a lot of puking, achy, tired people. Hell, even Hikaru'd had it--he'd been one of the last to get it. It'd lingered and recurred, and he'd relapsed several times. Felt under the weather and sickly, but not enough to go to Sickbay, and certainly not enough to miss shifts.  
  
  
In fact, this is the first shift he's had in weeks before which he didn't have to puke up, oh, everything he'd ever eaten  _ever_.  
  
  
"Oh,  _God_ ," Hikaru moans as Kirk pins his hips and  _yes, this_  is why Hikaru makes a point of showing up for shifts early (or recently, staying late) when Kirk has the Bridge. For the illicit thrill of being on his back on, or bent over the Captain's table, and having Kirk's hard, thick, _gorgeous_  cock break him wide open, and leave him a shaken, sodden wreck of a pilot.  
  
  
So,  _of course_  Hikaru's been monogamous. At this late date, he'd be, and has been, hard put to find anyone who can  _get_  him completely hard, let alone make him come the way Jim Kirk makes him come.  
  
  
Screwing other people would be worse than pointless, it'd be counterproductive.  
  
  
Not that he'll ever tell  _Kirk_  that. The man's already got an ego like the Delphic Expanse. So Hikaru closes his eyes, bites his lip and scrambles for purchase on the smooth, shiny desk that he loves, beyond all reason, to shoot all over (though he suspects his fondness may have something to do with the fact that sometimes, not often, Kirk can be talked into licking the desk clean). Widens his stance and thinks unsexy thoughts. Like the shift he's going to have to pull in Engineering this week. Scotty's a great guy off hours, but on, he's a fucking slave driver. It's really a wonder his crew haven't ganged up on him and sent him on a one-way tour of the Beta Quadrant, via lifep--  
  
  
"Fuck, I'm not gonna last long." Because when the Beta Quadrant makes you want to come, there's just no stopping the orgasm.  
  
  
And anyway, his lower back is killing the fucking  _Christ_  out of him. Kirk hasn't even been fucking him for that long. Although, tempus fugit. The story of Hikaru's life.  
  
  
"Not . . . fucking  _God_ , I love being in you . . . not gonna last, either."  
  
  
"C'mon, then, Captain. Make me come." Hikaru straightens, leaning back against Kirk, till his head is laying on Kirk's shoulder. Those big blue eyes are hazy and not-all-the-way-there, intensely vulnerable as they gaze into Hikaru's. This, he's known for some time, is Jim Kirk at his most honest. It wouldn't do to be anything less than equally honest at this moment, and Hikaru never is. "Gimme what I need."  
  
  
" _Oh, yeah_ , your wish is--no, wait." Kirk blinks, and the walls in his eyes go back up, though not as thick or high. Hikaru can see regret peeking over the top, even as Kirk keeps fucking him, the hands on Hikaru's hips tighter than ever. " _No_ , H, I'm dead serious, we shouldn't be fucking, period, but I  _really, really_  should not be coming in you--"  
  
  
"Enough, already, with the doom-talk!" Hikaru covers Kirk's hands with his own and bears down as hard as he can without rupturing something important. Kirk swears and starts thrusting faster and harder because he is  _totally_  Hikaru's bitch in moments like these. Never mind who does the topping. "Whatever STI or disease you think you're gonna give me, what makes today so special? Why couldn't I have gotten it--I dunno, sixteen hours ago, when we were right here, just like this?"  
  
  
"You don't unders-stand," Kirk stutters, like his hips. It's good to know they're both dancing on the knife's edge. "You don't know--"  
  
  
"No, I don't. But you know what I  _do_  know? I've had that Antaran flu for  _weeks_ , now, and you haven't caught it from me. So much for the fucking Germ Theory."  
  
  
"Bull _shit_ ," Kirk scoffs, regaining some of that legendary control. He changes his angle a bit, and it's  _hello!_  Hikaru's prostate,  _hello!_  fireworks show. "You can't have the flu--any flu--for weeks, or you'd die."  
  
  
Panting, and unable to stay upright, Hikaru braces his hands on the table again. Watches sweat drip from his hair and face, to the surface, until he can't watch anything anymore, and closes his eyes. "How . . . d' _you_  know?"   
  
  
"Fuck a doctor for five and a half years, you start to pick this shit up--unh, God, I love how bad you need my cock, baby, yeaaah . . . yeah, take it  _aaaallll_." Hikaru rolls his eyes, but that in no way diminishes the stars he sees on the backs of his eyelids. "Anyway, we got rid of the Antaran Flu weeks ago. Enterprise is green-light for no flu whatsoever. So what makes you think you still have it?"  
  
  
"Puking . . . joint ache . . . fatigue . . . the smell of my favorite food . . . makes me nauseas." Just remembering that these lovely symptoms have been waiting for him every morning for nearly a month, and may well start up again, today notwithstanding, makes Hikaru's orgasm back the hell off. A bit, anyway. "Feels like I haven't kept down a full meal in weeks."  
  
  
"Hmm . . . you don't seem to have any problem keeping down that, uh, high protein liquid diet you like so much."  
  
  
Cue the smirk, no doubt. And the eyebrow-waggle that makes Hikaru want to beat Kirk into the next dimension and back. "If you want me to  _stay_  on that high protein liquid diet, you will  _never_ refer to it that way again."  
  
  
"Goddamn, you have no sense of humor," Kirk says with theatrical sadness, but his voice is shaking and thick. "Seriously, dude, I've seen the food you eat, and it's a wonder your stomach didn't revolt sooner."  
  
  
"It's called  _eating healthy_. Though I'm wasting my fucking time explaining that to someone who eats fucking cow-bits that are cooked till they're nothing but carcinogens covered in grease."  
  
  
"Mmmm . . . carcinogens and grease," Kirk says wistfully (and in a creepily sexy way), and Hikaru shoves back against him again.  
  
  
"Hey! Mind on the matter at hand! Do  _not_  think about hamburgers while you fuck me--whoa!"  
  
  
Kirk's practically sprawled on Hikaru's back, now, his breath hot on Hikaru's neck. "Hmm, was that a plea for release I heard?"  
  
  
"That was a fucking  _dema_ \--fuck! Shit! Please, don't stop!" Hikaru asks--begs, really. Because _this_  is what the crowd pays for.  _This_  is the best seat in the house. When Kirk stops fucking him and just goes for flat-out, torturous ass-pounding. His pace is punishing and merciless, each thrust ending with the tip of Kirk's uncut cock brutally beating the living hell out of Hikaru's prostate--and is it still considered seeing stars when those stars have whited out one's vision?  
  
  
Oh, and the piece de resistance, but only if Hikaru begs for it.  
  
  
"Please. . . ." he grits out.  
  
  
"Please . . . what?" Perfectly neutral, perfectly patient tone. But for the evidence at hand, Hikaru wouldn't even know Kirk had his cock in someone, he sounds so unruffled.  
  
  
". . . please . . . make . . . me . . . come. . . ."  
  
  
"Please, make you come . . . what?"  
  
  
"Fucking  _hate_  you-- _fuck_!"  
  
  
The fact that Kirk can make him feel so good in part by hurting him is . . . something Hikaru still isn't comfortable with after a year. Whether Kirk is hurting him till it feels good, or making him feel good till it hurts is something he can't talk about with his friends or anyone in his family, or even the ship's counselor.  
  
  
It just  _is_.  
  
  
It's a cross that he must, it seems, bear. And despite that burn building in his lower back, Hikaru's never been surer that he  _can bear it_. For however long the cross is his to carry.  
  
  
And knowing Kirk's attention span regarding the people he fucks, it really won't be much longer, anyway. That Hikaru's somehow held Kirk's interest for a year--the longest anyone who isn't McCoy has held it--has gotta be some kinda weird, improbable fluke.  
  
  
"Talk to me, baby," Kirk kisses Hikaru's neck, ghostly-light. "Talk to me, or I'll pull out, and leave you trembling on the edge, and you can spend your entire shift wishing you had me inside you. Is that how you wanna play this, Hikaru? 'Cuz I'll give you whatever you want, but you gotta let me know--"  
  
  
"P-please . . . make me come . . .  _J-jim_. . . ."  
  
  
"You know I will," Kirk murmurs, pulling Hikaru upright, holding him up when his legs start to wobble and his body sags. One arm comes up like an iron band across Hikaru's chest, and with his other hand, Kirk tugs on Hikaru's cock like he's trying to pull it off. If this were anyone else, it'd be painful, and horrible, but with Kirk . . . with Jim . . . everything feels so. . . .  
  
  
"Jiiiimmm!" Hikaru wails at the top of his lungs (something else no one but Jim's ever been able to make him do) when Jim's fingers slide past the base of his cock and past his balls to pinch the thin, stretched skin. If pain had a color, it'd be the one painted on the back of Hikaru's eyes at this moment. That that color would also represent pleasure is no longer a surprise. At least not to Hikaru, who's coming all over the captain's table--coming so hard and so hot it hurts. It feels like he's being scalded from the inside out, and he knows he's yelling, but can't hear it over the white noise of his beating heart and boiling blood.  
  
  
And Kirk's whispering in his ear, the hand across Hikaru's chest pinching his nipple, the one that'd been on his cock sliding up his stomach.  
  
  
Hikaru knows, with what little mind is left for observation, that Jim comes soon after him, swearing and breathing Hikaru's name. . . .  
  
  
Then everything gets hazy for awhile, like Jim's eyes, when he's turned on. Just a cool, perfect blue to float in, and rest in, and be safe in. He can feel Jim's hands on him, soothing and slow. Can feel their hearts beating in time, and hear himself moan when Jim pulls out, and the familiar, walloping ache of getting fucked hard-core by Jim "wider than a country mile" Kirk really sets in.  
  
  
(Hikaru  _loves_  that ache. It's like a souvenir from the best theme park  _ever_.)  
  
  
But nothing really comes into focus until Jim maneuvers him over to the ready-room couch and lays him down. Disappears for a minute, then comes back, draping something soft and thick over Hikaru.  
  
  
Why the man has a blanket in his ready-room, and lube, and handcuffs, but not protection is beyond Hikaru, but as it is, he's grateful for something to keep the chill off. He gets so cold so easily, these days. Damn flu.  
  
  
Once Jim has him tucked in and bundled up, he kneels next to the couch, looking Hikaru in the eyes worriedly. Which is ridiculous. Hikaru's never been the type anyone worries over. It's always the other way around.  
  
  
"Hi, there," he says, aching steadily in  _all_  the right places, and thus too content for snark. And anyway, he doesn't like to see Jim . . . worry. Not about him. Captains shouldn't have to be concerned about their lieutenants. Even lieutenants they happen to be fucking. "Why the funky face?"  
  
  
"I dunno, I just--" Jim brushes sweaty hair off of Hikaru's forehead, and frowns a little. "Am I . . . a jerk to you, H?"  
  
  
"Only when I want you to be." Hikaru smirks, squirming till the ache in his ass makes him wince and moan. "Oh, yeah. You're  _such_  a jerk."  
  
  
Now  _Jim_  smirks. Though it may be more of a smile. "No, I don't mean when we're fucking--"  
  
  
"I know what you meant, Jim. And  _I_  meant what I said."  
  
  
"Oh. Okay." That smirk turns into a grin, and Hikaru rolls his eyes. He really should get up. Tired and spent as he is, he still has a shift in less than an hour, and he's going to need a shower. And possibly a mid-range analgesic. The captain's ready-room has a full bathroom attached, and said bathroom contains both a shower, and leftover painkiller hypos, probably from when Kirk used to bend McCoy over the same table--  
  
  
\--which never used to bother Hikaru before, but it  _really_  bothers him now, and has for months. It's easier, he's found, to just think of whatever's in the bathroom as being left there by leprechauns, or gremlins. In any event, he still has to  _get_  there. Should be no problem. It's only fifteen feet away, close enough for even the most broken-assed pilot to hobble to.  
  
  
But . . . it's so much nicer to lay here, looking into Jim's eyes, and making him smile.  
  
  
"'Course, I may have to revise that if I wind up with crotch mites or dick-rot or whatever it is you think you have," he adds, yawning. Jim's eyes widen, and he suddenly looks . . . horrified.  
  
  
"Shit! Ah, shit--I was supposed to pull out before I came!"  
  
  
"Mm, I wuv you, too, Jimmy-kins."  
  
  
"H, this isn't a joke! I--you--fuck." Jim hangs his head and pinches the bridge of his nose like a man with a migraine. Some weird feeling walks its way through Hikaru's being, making it hard to breathe, even as warmth sweeps through him. Clearing his throat, he runs his hand through Jim's sweaty/gel-y hair, and Jim looks up at him, surprised. "What?"  
  
  
"Kiss me--and don't say another fucking word before you do," Hikaru says as balefully as his mood will allow. Which isn't very. But it's enough that Jim leans in and kisses him without speaking. It's not a long kiss, or very deep--there's barely any tongue--but it feels . . . like maybe for all their fucking and sucking and kink, they haven't really done this, simply kissed each other enough.  
  
  
When it ends, that strange, yearning sigh may just be coming from Hikaru.  
  
  
"Are you okay?" Jim's breath puffs on Hikaru's lips, like an invitation to another kiss. But Jim has to go and ruin the moment by talking more. "You're acting a little . . . nice, for you. Are  _you_  a pod person?"  
  
  
"Which is exactly why you should never be allowed to talk. Who needs conversational skills when you're so insanely fucking pretty?" Hikaru says, running his thumb along one model cheekbone. Jim's eyebrows shoot up, and he grins, charming and idiotic. Normally, Hikaru hates that fucking grin, but for now, anyway, it makes him feel. . . .  
  
  
"Well, I  _am_  a damned handsome--dude, are you okay? You look like you're about to--hey!" Jim whines as Hikaru shoves him aside in a mad dash for the bathroom, where he's noisily sick.  
  
  
 _There goes the handful of grapes I had for breakfast,_  he thinks, when the rush of burning bile leaves him a spare moment to do so. He wonders if maybe he  _should_  go to Sickbay . . . though surely he can't stay this sick for much longer, right? Four weeks has to be the absolute  _cap_  on the flu, right?  
  
  
When he's done--even the dry heaves, which hurt like a  _mother_ \--he flushes the toilet, closes the lid, and lays his face on soothing, icy-cold alloy. Rubs his stomach slowly, in diminishing circles. It helps, in his experience.  
  
  
"Uh--you okay?" Jim asks quietly, hovering at the doorway. Hikaru doesn't even look up. Usually, intense vertigo accompanies these lovely puking spells. And the vertigo causes apocalyptic dry heaves.  
  
  
"How the fuck do you  _think_  I am, Jim?" he snarls just as quietly, closing his eyes and squinching them tight. The sweet ache of remembrance has literally become just a pain in Hikaru's ass. Jim, and his damn cock. "I thought it was gone, but I guess I'm still sick. Fucking Antarans, and their fucking nasty-ass, putrid, dumb-shit germs!"  
  
  
"No, I, uh . . . don't think you're . . .  _sick_."  
  
  
"Yeah, because what I just did? Is a sign of perfect fucking health!" Hikaru sniffles. It feels like there's puke in his sinuses, and they  _burn_. The whole world smells like recycled grapes and stomach acid. "Fucking a doctor doesn't make  _you_  a doctor, so, thanks for the input, but save it."  
  
  
No reply to that, and it's so fucking  _typical_  of Jim--of  _Kirk_  to high-tail it whenever things get weird, or rough, and it's got nothing to do with the Federation, or Romulans, or some freaky menace trying to eat/destroy/takeover the Enterprise. So. Fucking. Typical. He never changes. Nev--  
  
  
Strong, careful hands are helping Hikaru to stand up, and it's . . . somehow such a sweet thing to do, so unexpected, that tears start running down Hikaru's face, making the spinning bathroom blurry, as well. He refuses to look up at Jim, just because he doesn't want  _his Captain_  to see him crying like a fucking baby. But Jim can probably tell from the shaking, anyway. He's so smart.  
  
  
In the seconds it takes them to get to the shower, he's fighting not to sob, because . . . Jim really _is_  wonderful sometimes, despite his lapses into carelessness, insensitivity, and a predilection to douchebaggery.  
  
  
"You're such a good, wonderful man," Hikaru whispers shakily, stepping over the ledge of the tiny shower and leaning against the wall. It's so cold and nice on his hot, damp skin, and is even distant relief to his aching ass.  
  
  
There's just barely enough room for two, and after a moment of hesitation, Jim gets in with him, smiling awkwardly when Hikaru starts sniffling again.  
  
  
"I dunno about a  _wonderful_  man, but I try to be good. It doesn't always work out that way, but. . . ." Jim sounds tired and scared, but determined. Hikaru can understand that first emotion, but the last two . . . not so much. "Um, watch out, gotta get my shirts and boxers off."  
  
  
Said clothing get tossed out the bathroom door, as do Jim's boxers. Then Jim's pulling the shower door closed and turning on the water--just the way Hikaru likes it, too:  _hot_.  
  
  
It's like he's psychic, Jim's so . . . solicitous and thoughtful all of a sudden. Like all along, there was this considerate, almost boyfriendly sort of guy hiding beneath the douchebag with the magic dick.  
  
  
He deserves better than he gets. Better than Hikaru's ever given him.  
  
  
"I'm sorry that I'm so mean to you all the time," he says hoarsely, looking up into Jim's eyes, his beautiful, crazy-blue eyes. And the tears aren't so mortifying now, because of the spray from the shower covering them both. It's like they're  _both_  crying.  
  
  
Jim's arms sliding around him aren't so bad, either, this hug that lasts longer than Hikaru should like (since he is most definitely  _not_  a hugger. At least not of Jim Kirk). It feels like something he's been waiting all his life to experience.  
  
  
As such, it's everything he could've hoped for. Possibly more. He wishes it could go on forever, and then some. That he could wrap himself up in it and never, ever be free of it.  
  
  
"You're only mean to me when I need you to be. It makes you a really intense fuck," Jim muses, resting his chin on Hikaru's head when he laughs, water-logged and quiet. "And anyway, I think your bitchiness is sexy."  
  
  
"If I'm bitchy, it's only because you're such a prick. I mean--fuck, I'm sorry." He really, really means it. That's why he can't stop saying it. He  _needs_  Jim to believe him. "I don't think you're a prick . . . all the time, anyway. I'm just so tired lately, and the fucking flu's driving me nuts--and all I do is puke and ache, and . . . the only time I ever feel good anymore is when I'm with you, so I dunno why I can't stop being such a . . . bitch. I'm sorry."  
  
  
Jim, in the process of squeezing shampoo on Hikaru's hair freezes. But just for a moment. Then his fingers are moving on Hikaru's scalp, and they feel . . .  _amazing_. Like the best thing ever.  
  
  
Fucking tears. Fucking  _flu_.  
  
  
 _My life is_ so _fucked_ , Hikaru thinks miserably, because he  _is_  a miserable person. Lonely, even when he's not alone. The only time he doesn't feel that way is when he's with Jim, and . . . he treats Jim like shit.  _So completely fucked._  
  
  
"Hey, now, don't cry . . . I feel good when I'm with you, too," Jim says, tilting Hikaru's head back and meeting his eyes for the first time since he entered the bathroom. Then Jim smiles. Doesn't freak out, or anything when Hikaru glomps onto him and starts sobbing against his shoulder a little.  
  
  
Okay . . . maybe a  _lot_.  
  
  
"After we shower, I think we should go to Sickbay, alright? I'm worried about you, and I wanna make sure you're okay," Jim murmurs softly, but in a tone that brooks no argument. It's his captain-voice.  
  
  
Hikaru nods, another wave of warmth sweeping through him, making it hard to breathe, though breathe he does. In fact, Jim's skin smells . . . like shampoo, and  _Jim_ , and these smells are two of a very few that don't turn Hikaru's stomach.  
  
  
Jim always smells so  _good_ , but now, he smells  _perfect_. Right.  
  
  
There go the water-works again. And the sniffling, because there probably  _is_  a little puke up his nose. He's been having just that kind of a month.  
  
  
"Jeez, uh . . . you're really crying, there. . . ." Jim notes nervously, his fingers still massaging Hikaru's scalp. If not for all the standing, he could just fall asleep in Jim's surprisingly strong arms.  
  
  
"Because you s-smell  _so_  good--like,  _r-really_  good!"  
  
  
"Oh. Uh, thanks." It's the most uncertain Hikaru's ever heard Jim sound, and that makes him sob harder. "I mean--shit, baby, please don't cry. I'm . . . I'm really sorry--I didn't mean to . . . smell so good. . . ."  
  
  
Which makes Hikaru's body double up on tears and sobs, till he's literally inconsolable. Though Jim tries, bless his heart. His big, kind heart.  
  
  
"You're  _such_  a wonderful, wonderful man. . . !"  
  


*


	3. Trouble and Boo-Boo . . . All Grown Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to take a look at the lives of the two children hinted at in Baby-Daddy I & II, twenty-two years on. Plus, I invented a new word! Whoever finds that word first gets a fic(let) of their choosing!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine . . . not if Roddenberry's and Abram's lawyers have anything to say about it.  
> Notes/Warnings: Het. Pegging. Mentions of femslash. Mentions of slash. Mentions of vegan-recipes. Past Mpreg implied.

  
It's a rainy, chilly winter night, and for once, the Academy grounds are fairly quiet.  
  
  
As usual, when his roommate, Krish, is away, David has the windows open. Because, also as usual, Jamie's spending the the night, and she likes plenty of brisk, fresh (freezinghellaballsass _cold_ ) air. And David, cuddler that he is, has a ready-made excuse to do so, without her biteless, sophomoric mockery.  
  
  
In the diffuse, orange light (cast by a several Xantoran glow-sticks, given to David by Joanna and Jahn when the  _Semmelweiss_  was in Earth-dock for retro-fitting last year) of the room, he kinda feels like he and Jamie are the only two people in the world, though in some ways, it's  _always_ felt like that. At least to David. He's wanted, for a long time, now, to ask if Jamie feels the same way. She's not ever one to wax romantic, but that doesn't mean she doesn't  _feel things_ , and deeply.  
  
  
It's really a question of hue, not intensity, as David's Papa would say. But mathematical abstraction, much to Papa's bafflement and Dad's amusement, aren't David's thing at all.  
  
  
“What'cha thinkin' about?” he asks, running his index finger down Jamie's shoulder. She snorts sleepily, warm breath ghosting across David's collarbone. Her body's a long, whipcord sun, cleaving to the left side of him, thrumming with more life and energy than anyone he's ever met. It's rare that she's this still, even while sleeping.  
  
  
“Thinkin' 'bout how I like to beat the shit outta people who talk during afterglow. People whose names rhyme with  _Blayvid_. . . .”  
  
  
“ _Blayvid_  isn't even a word, dumb-ass.”  
  
  
Jamie turns her face just enough to give him what'll be a livid hickey where his uniform won't hide it. “You  _do_  realize I can hurt you, right, lame-ass? And not just in the way you like?”  
  
  
David doesn't dignify that with an answer. They both know that what Jamie  _can_  do, and what Jamie  _will_  do . . . coincide, 99% of the time. Except where David is concerned. “C'mon, tell me, or I'll keep asking.”  
  
  
Jamie grumbles, scratching David's chest and tugging on his chest hair. Her palms are wide and fingers are kind of stubby, with bitten nails. Not particularly elegant hands, they're work-roughened and scarred. The hands of—David's overheard this around the Academy, and felt a burst of pride, each time—the most promising recruit Security and Tactical's had in years. To him, though, they're simply the hands that he loves best, and he pulls the right one to his face, kissing it till Jamie whips her hand away, giggling and snorting. “I'm not telling you jack-shit, Lord Byron. You're gonna be all,  _Jamie, why ya gotta be such a pervert!_  if I tell you.”  
  
  
“You forget: I've been subjected to your cooking, and to your massive, sometimes creepy porn collection. You've horrified and disgusted me as much as you're ever going to,” David swears.  Though to be honest, he'd hit his Jamie-gross-out threshold when they were twelve and used to hang around Fisherman's Wharf. He found himself saying one afternoon:  _no, Jamie, don't eat_ gagh _you bought off the back of a transport! It's been in the sun all day! It's stopped moving!_  
  
  
Shortly thereafter, he'd barreled through that personal wall, when—still making gagging noises while Jamie belched and rubbed her stomach, declaring  _Filden_  gagh “cooler than, like, any-fucking-thing I ever ate!”--she'd grabbed David's shoulders and pulled him close. Given him a hard, wet, tongue-y, vile-tasting, bite-y, teeth-and-nose-bash-y, wonderful, too-short kiss that ended because Jamie had belched again, into his mouth.  
  
  
“Now, both our mouths taste like a Klingon's ass,” she'd said, wide-eyed and blushing after shoving him away hard enough that he fell on his his  _own_  ass. Then she'd had to tug him to his feet, because all David was good for was staring up at her, and realizing for the first time, that his best friend was . . .  _pretty_.  
  
  
It'd been his first kiss, and to this day is still one of the very best.  
  
  
“Hmm. Point,” she says now. “They're some pretty interesting thoughts. Even for me.”  
  
  
“Do tell. Pleeeeeeease?” David mock-whines. “Or I won't be your friend anymore, and I won't let you come over to play with my stuff.”  
  
  
More giggles and snorts. “You  _like it_  when I play with your stuff, Wavey-Davey. Heh.  _Tell me vhat you are theenking, Jamie-keens . . . meh-meh-meh-meh-meh, I haff no deek. Meh-meh-meh_ ,” she mimics in a horrible, inaccurate falsetto. And David's accent isn't nearly that thick. Anymore.  
  
  
“I do, too, have a dick, fuck you very much.” David yanks on a lock of her hair hard enough to make her yelp, then dig her fingertips into his chest.  _Hard_.  
  
  
“Fuck  _you_ , Daves, turnabout is fair play.” Increase of that pressure, even as he tugs harder on Jamie's thick hair. The Mexican stand-off holds until David lets go of her hair, just like he knew it would. Then the same fingers that'd bruised, are soothing, followed by wet, lingering kisses.   
  
  
“Why're you such a psycho, all the time? Just tell me who you're thinking about, and . . . I'll make you waffles in the morning,” he wheedles, because Jamie doesn't like anything better than she likes sex.  _Except_  for homemade waffles.  
  
  
She chuckles, then bites his nipple till he sees some damned spectacular stars. Till he's wriggling around and starting to get hard again. Brief, sporadic flickers of tongue complete the torture. At least till she stops and props herself up on his chest for a moment, looking quite smug. Her face is tanned and wide-planed, with a pointy chin to match her pointy, pixie nose, and most arresting--at least to David--big hazel eyes that seem to shift back and forth between steel-blue and a crazy grey-brown.  
  
  
“Please. You'll make me waffles  _anyway_ , bitch.” Tossing her hair, she lays her head on his shoulder again, but this time, instead of scratching his chest, she's walking her fingers up his stirring cock. “Pick a better bargaining chip, future Deputy Liaison Chekov.”  
  
  
David closes his eyes and concentrates on keeping his voice squeak- and groan-free. Jamie's ego is already six sectors wide, no need to feed it more. She knows well what she can do to him with a simple look, let alone a touch. “D-dear Diary: sometimes I wonder why Jamie Sulu and I are still friends. It's a good thing she's so smokin'-hot, that way she'll neeeeehver have to grow an actual  _personality_. . . .”  
  
  
“Hah! Dear Diary: why is  _Dave_  such a lame-ass geek? And while you're answering the unanswerable, Diary, why  _am_  I so smokin'-hot?” Jamie guffaws, and rather goonishly. At twenty-two, she has the same indelicate laugh she had at two. (The best description of it came from David's Dad and started an eight month Cold War between he and Uncle H:  _that girl laughs like a drunken toddler. Stronger emphasis on the 'toddler'. Maybe._ ) “Ah, I'm just fuckin' with ya, buddy. About the lame-ass part, anyway. And I was thinking about Lt. Commander Chapel.”  
  
  
“ _Auntie Christine_?” From this vantage point, all he can see is long, inky dark hair—already sprouting grey, and Uncle H has been heard to say it serves her right, for all the trouble and headache she was as a child, and still is as an adult—and the tip of her noise. “Who changed both our diapers, once upon a time? Who still calls us  _Trouble_  and  _Boo-Boo_ , when she sees us? You're kidding me.”  
  
  
“Diapers, shmiapers, Boo-boo. What're you, blind? I would  _so_  pounce on that if I thought I had any chance. All day, everyday, twice on Sunday.”  
  
  
“Jesus.” David can't even find the words for a moment. Auntie Christine is a close family friend. She helped deliver them both, and babysat them frequently for the first years of their life, when they were still on the Enterprise. And then, there's the diapers, thing. “Okay,  _seriously_ , Troubs?”  
  
  
“What?” Jamie looks up at him, smirking. The way she licks her lips is giving David's body Ideas. Ideas that are only encouraged by her calloused, deft, wonderfully brazen hand. “How have you not noticed that Auntie Christine is  _hot_?”  
  
  
“Because I was too busy noticing that she's, like,  _fifty-three_!”  
  
  
“She's a fucking well-kept-up fifty-three. Have you seen her legs? And omifucking _god_  her  _ass_?” Jamie rolls her eyes and lays her head on David's chest for a moment before grinning up at him. “You know I like 'em older. Not, like—Gramma Winona-older, but . . . the Lt. Commander could tie me down and make me call her 'Auntie Christine', while she did it. Or vice versa.”  
  
  
David closes his eyes. It's no help. In fact, he's able to see Auntie Christine that much clearer. And she  _does_  actually look really good for fifty-three. Especially those legs—David's a sucker for long legs, and Auntie Christine's go up to the  _moon_ \-- “There's so much wrong with this conversation,  _Trouble_ , I feel I should opt out of it.”  
  
  
"Aw." David cracks one eye open. Jamie looks exactly like Uncle Jim when she leers like that. Only . . . eviller, somehow. “And  _I_  feel as if I should repeat myself: I'd like her to tie me to her bed, spread-eagle, and eat me out till I scream  _oh, Auntie Christine! Please, let me co_ \--”  
  
  
“Enough, or I'll withdraw the offer of waffles!” David opens his eyes to glare, and Jamie falls silent, her smile fading. Gives him that steely Kirk-look.  
  
  
“The fuck you will.”  
  
  
David gives her a steely look of his own-- _McCoy_ -style--and finally she huffs and straddles his thighs in one fluid motion, like she'd mount a horse. She's lean and long, like a blade, barely any curves on her; a woman of modest endowments (“But I'm built like a fucking  _booooyyyy_!” she'd whined, while trying to convince Dad to perform augmentative surgery on her. When she was ten), she's breath-takingly lovely, nonetheless. And  _her_  legs? Go all the way to  _Mars_. “Fine. I'll shut up under duress. But I still wanna fuck her, and don't pretend  _you_  wouldn't fuck her. I've played your wingman often enough that I know  _exactly_  what you like, and you're a leg man.”  
  
  
“I neither confirm, nor deny,” David says loftily, putting his hands on her thighs. “Hey, speaking of older women, weren't you pretty hot and heavy with that professor of yours? Tall, curvy, with the really blue eyes and the fabulous . . . smile?”  
  
  
“Huh. 'Was', being the operative word.” The ruefulness in Jamie's voice isn't directed at David, but still makes him wince. Jamie's smile is kinda sad, kinda self-mocking. It almost never is, and for a moment, he can easily envision his hands around Professor Riker's neck.  
  
  
“I'm sorry, babe.” David takes Jamie's hands and squeezes them. Folds his anger at Riker and puts it away for later consideration. Right now, all that matters is Jamie. And the key to lifting normally nigh-unsinkable spirits, is one smile. Jamie's smiles are like landslides . . . once they start, they're hard to stop. “So, uh . . . you's want I should put a hit out on her? I mean, not for nothn', but . . . that's somethin' I could make happen. Fuhgeddaboudit.”  
  
  
“God, that sounds like something Daddy'd say. Well, he'd probably try to have her court-martialed.” Jamie's smile shifts from game, to genuinely amused. They both know Uncle Jim'd probably have Riker court-martialed  _and_  have a hit put out on her. If Uncle H didn't punch her ticket first. Jamie's parents can be  _extremely_  over-protective—even more so than David's. “Anyways, it's all chill, Daves. It's fucking  _frosty_ , and you know what I say? Forget Cat Riker. Stodgy, moralizing, pretentious—I didn't  _need_  her, I just liked to fuck her. Hell, if I was smart, I'd have slept my way to an A, before semester ended. As it is, I squeaked by with a C-. Fucking waste-of-time Ethics class.”  
  
  
Irony is never Jamie's friend, and is frequently her foe. ”You know it's not anything to do with you, personally, right? That maybe she just remembered she was  _married_.”  
  
  
“Okay . . . fuckall's that gotta do with  _me_ , though?” Jamie asks in that charmingly self-absorbed way that  _should_  piss him off, but kinda makes him melt. Just a little. “I never said she had to leave him—or even spend massive shit-tons of time with  _me_ , instead of him. The only logical reason there was to dump me was because she didn't wanna fuck me, anymore.”  
  
  
David can imagine what Uncle Spock'd have to say about Jamie's “logic” and “reason”. He's pretty sure it'd involve that intimidating eyebrow-thing he does, which never works on Uncle Jim, or on Jamie.  
  
  
“Look . . . the fact that your married Ethics professor had a mistress, who was one of her students, is an irony that's only lost on you. She's a woman who built her life on ethical behavior, then went sneaking around with someone behind her husband's back. And we both know that it was behind her husband's back, so don't make that face, James Sulu.  _Not everyone's family is like yours,_  okay?” David's said this before. Many, many times. It may never sink in, but as long as Jamie runs the risk of being hurt by her lack of understanding of everyone who  _wasn't_  a part of the rarified, non-judgmental atmosphere they grew up in, he'll keep trying. “For instance, in most families . . . the parents are married--”  
  
  
“My dads  _are_  married, dude, we were at the wedding five years ago.” At the mere mention, her eyes take on this fond, almost fuzzy look. And Jamie's not especially sentimental about anyone or anything. “Remember when Dad tackled Daddy and tried to strangle him during the reception, and Uncle Spock had to separate them? And then no one could find them for, like an hour and a half, then Uncle Pavel found them fucking in the coat-room?” That loud, rude guffaw. Even her goofy, stupid laugh sends a thrill through him, has all along. He's beginning to think he was born a goner. “He kept saying,  _ai, I vish I vas blind! Leonard, my eyes_! Hee! Classic!”  
  
  
David rolls  _his_  eyes. He remembers well Papa's shell-shocked kvetching on the ride home. Once, he'd even started to describe what, exactly, he'd walked in on the newly-weds doing in the coatroom. Dad had whapped his arm, and said:  _ix-nay. Ot-nay in front of the id-kay. We'll just have to buy new coats! Doesn't that sound like fun, Dave!_  
  
  
“They've been more or less together, for twenty-two years . . . more or less. Just got married five years ago, and you yourself told me Uncle H only said yes, after, like, a jillion proposals, because Uncle Jim threatened to leave him!”  
  
  
“Oh, that.” Jamie flaps her hand at him as if he's being silly. “That's just their way, man, you know that. Daddy's been proposing to Dad five, six times a week since I was born. He'd never have  _left_. He just knows a good bargaining chip when he sees it, 'cause it totally worked.”  
  
  
It's a fight, not to roll his eyes. “Which leads neatly to my next point: I love them, but Uncle Jim and Uncle H've got a dysfunctional, sometimes violent relationship, that hasn't exactly mellowed with age, or marriage,” David points out, squeezing her thighs, only to have his hands smacked away, and that smile has been replaced by a narrow-eyed squint.  
  
  
“Has, too! And my parents are  _not_  dysfunctional--your  _face_  is dysfunctional.  _My dads_  are  _in love_!” An assertion Jamie punctuates by grabbing David's cock and yanking it harder than even _he_  likes.  
  
  
“Ow! I never said they weren't! Jesus  _Christ_ , I plan on makin' some kids with that, someday!” he jabs at her wrist hard enough to make her yelp and let go, then glare at him like a wounded puppy, cradling her wrist between her breasts and bearing small, square teeth at him. Some security officer she'll be. “Oh, c'mon, James, even  _you_  gotta admit their love is kinda fucked up. Remember that time when we were gonna have the sleepover at your house, and when we got home from school, your parents were arguing about Uncle Jim's reassignment? We waited forever for them to stop fighting and it just got worse and worse, until we snuck back out and went to my house?”  
  
  
Jamie pouts, still rubbing her wrist, dark, curving eyebrows lowering in a scowl. “Okay, so, one little incident, and my parents are awful?”  
  
  
“I didn't say  _awful_. Your parents are  _chill_. But kinda fucked up, too. And  _little?_  Are we remembering the same fight?” After the shouting match turned into a fairly brief fist-fight, Uncle Jim had somehow (they never  _could_  figure out how, eavesdropping as they were from the relative safety of the kitchen) incapacitated Uncle H just long enough to drag him to their bedroom.  
  
  
Nothing but sound-proofed silence for the next hour, till, with the nonchalance of prior experience, Jamie'd shrugged, and suggested they move the sleepover to David's house. “They're either still fighting, or fucking. But either way means no dinner for  _us_. Probably no breakfast, too. Let's go to your house.”  
  
  
The next afternoon, David had walked Jamie home, only to find both Uncles were still in their sleep-clothes, quiet and calm in the kitchen. Uncle Jim was smirking absently, while reading the news on his PADD, and Uncle H was making gluten-and-dairy-free chocolate chip waffles from scratch for lunch. He was to be in that zen, Betty Crocker-mood for days. David had learned how to make a lot of great vegan meals in that five days period. For such a powder-keg of a man, Uncle H could be a kind, and patient teacher. “Uncle Jim screws around and Uncle H looks the other way. Uncle H has the most massive anger management issues I've ever seen—which he usually takes it out on Uncle Jim. Usually with whatever pieces of furniture he can lift and toss—and Uncle Jim grins and bears it. They have screaming matches, sometimes  _physical fights_ , then have sex. Then everything's okay till Uncle Jim says something stupid, and Uncle H flips out again . . . that's not how most families are.”  
  
  
“Yeah, well, most families are  _boring_!” Jamie lets go of her wrist and plants both hands on David's shoulders, leaning down till they're nose to nose, and her eyes are his universe. As if they aren't already. “Maybe that's fine for other people. People like the Rikers, who'll never do anything exciting with their lives, or be an integral part of the interesting times we happen to be living in. But that's not for  _me_. You can't tell me that's for you either. And newsflash, Boo-boo, your life? Isn't gonna ever be boring, if you get an ambassadorship. Didja ever think about that?”  
  
  
He has. Exhaustively. So now, he thinks about his chatty, effortlessly brilliant Papa, and his gruff, but incredibly kind Dad, instead. They've been married all David's life, intensely devoted (and faithful) to one another with the kind of bemused besottedness of the newly-wed, and the ease of togetherness of a couple that's been together for a century. Their household hasn't always been harmonious—Papa could be an autocratic know-it-all, and Dad never  _did_  meet an argument he didn't like--but neither have the McCoy-Chekovs had a knock-down/drag-out.  
  
  
The Sulu-Kirks, on the other hand, are two of the least harmonious people David's ever seen. At least when together. Separately, they're two completely different--one might even say  _sane_ \--people, but add the other, and it's like mixing bleach and ammonia: poisonous and explosive. And sometimes that chemistry explodes into sex, and sometimes it explodes into, well, violence. (Even while they're fighting, though, there's an intense, disturbing sexual not-so-under-current between them. As if the fighting is simply part of a bizarre mating ritual.  
  
  
Between David's increasing attraction to Jamie, and Sulu-Kirk's mating dance of snark, sniping, and heated, layered looks at each other, puberty hadn't been a terribly comfortable time for David while at his best friend's home.)  
  
  
The Sulu-Kirks seem to magnify and intensify each other best and worst personality traits, and if there  _is_  a harmony between them, it's clashing and discordant, jangling and uneasy. Intoxicating in small doses, maddening in larger.  
  
  
That intoxicating madness is part of why David's always been drawn to Jamie. She was born of brilliant chaos, and he, like probably hundred of others, has lost his heart to her. Wants to to be caught up in the noise and exquisite tempest, and to sometimes, if Jamie would let him, bring a little calm to her storm.  
  
  
Sometimes, anyway. And only if and when she needs a change of pace.  
  
  
He wants  _Jamie_ , and there has to be, David knows, some middle-ground between bedrock stability and roller-coaster-bordering-on-chaos. A place where he and Jamie could find common ground together. And the only way to find that place is hand in hand with the woman he loves. It's time to stop dancing around as he has been for almost two years.  
  
  
Steeling himself, he measures his voice carefully, pitches it casually. He's taken several classes that focus on both voice modulation and public speaking, but they're all far from him, now. Like they never happened. “I never said I wanted a boring life. That's the last thing I want,” he murmurs, kissing the tip of her nose. “I only meant that you've gotta realize that most people haven't lived the life we have, seen what we've seen. Most parents aren't like mine, and fewer still are like yours. Sometimes, that's not a positive thing, but I think in most ways, the ways that count, it is.”  
  
  
“Well. Good.” Satisfied, Jamie kisses his nose in return, and sits back on her heels, winding her hair into a ponytail, then an efficient knot at the nape of her neck. It makes her look like the naughtiest librarian ever, what with the nudity. She's staring at his cock and biting her lip as If she's got a particularly dastardly plan in mind for it. Which of course, only makes it harder. “I mean . . . I dunno, if I ever got married, I'd need something like my dads have—a committed relationship with an arrangement. 'Cause I like strange. That's just how I'm wired. My spouse'd have to be down with that—maybe even participate. But  _I would come home. Always_. No matter what. No one would ever take my spouse's place in my heart, just like with Daddy.  _You_  see the fights and yelling and Sickbay visits.  _I_  see Daddy always coming home to Dad. Comm'ing him just to ask how his day was. The way Dad's eyes light up whenever he sees Daddy—and not always with rage, like you think.  
  
  
“Fuck. I'm fucking up explaining it, but . . . the bottom line is, they know each other, and they love each other. At the end of the day, that's all that matters to them. And to me.”  
  
  
There's that sentimental note in her tone again, and David understands something new about someone he thought he knew practically everything about. “You want someone who knows who you are, and loves you anyway?”  
  
  
“I . . . yeah.” And she  _could_  be blushing, but it's hard to tell with the glow-stick lighting. Everything has a soft, dark-orange patina on it. But she's staring intently at Dave's cock again—hell, he's surprised it hasn't caught fire, yet. “Kinda silly, huh?”  
  
  
“Totally. But only because you're selling yourself short: don't settle for someone who loves you _in spite_  of who you are, but  _because_  of who you are. Who you are is . . .  _amazing_.”  
  
  
Jamie grins, crooked and wry. Meets David's gaze and grins for real. “Well. It's always nice to hear from a fan. But if the galaxy's fulla people like how you mentioned, all judging and conservative, nobody's gonna want a wife who'll dip her stylus in the galactic pixels. I won't hold my breath waiting for what's not gonna happen. Blue's really not my color.”  
  
  
“No, it's really not.  _Lights at forty percent_.” As the lights slowly come up, Jamie looks at him like he's nuts, and he smiles. Fills his eyes with the sight of her: uniformly tan skin broken only by wine-dark nipples and shadow-dark pubic hair. Her eyes are a slate-ish sort of grey in the artificial light, and wisps of hair frame her face.   
  
  
David loves her. Has never loved anyone else, and probably never will. He's never been more certain of that, or more okay with it.  
  
  
 _Well, then, there's nothin' to it, but to do it_ , like Dad says.  _Sooner begun is sooner done_ , like Papa says. So, David goes on before he loses his nerve. “If you're accepting applications for a spouse, I humbly and sincerely submit mine. And should you wish it, I can provide character references.”  
  
  
Jamie doesn't react for nearly a minute, except to blink. And scrinch her face up, like she's done all her life when confused. “ _How's_  that?”  
  
  
“Are you really  _this_  dense?” David rolls his eyes and sits up, taking Jamie's square hands. Her eyes are lovely and perplexed. “James Demora Sulu, will you marry me?”  
  
  
“Yeah, right--is this some kinda weird practical Joke? Is Daddy in on it, that fucker?” She looks around as if expecting Uncle Jim to jump out of David's closet (a truly shudder-worthy idea, and second only to  _Dad_  popping out of David's closet in shudder-worthiness) or maybe wriggle out from under Krish's bed.  
  
  
“Nope. Not a joke. I wanna marry you. I think we'd be great together.” David laughs a little. “Actually, we're already great together.”  
  
  
Jamie shakes her head, still looking confused and uncertain. It's not a look that sits well on her—not as well as her customary confidence—but David simply sees another facet of her to love. “Of course we're great together. We're best-forever-friends. But I'm not making the connection between that and marriage.”  
  
  
“You  _said_  that you wanted a committed relationship with someone you could have an _arrangement_  with. Someone who can handle your sluttiness and even participate. Well. I've _already_  participated in your threesomes, foursomes, and moresomes, and am willing to keep doing so, at your discretion. I know who you are, and how you are, and I love everything about you.  _Everything_. I love that you comm me every evening we're not together, just to ask how my day went, and tell me about yours. I love that no matter how many other people you're with, you never treat me differently, or feel differently about  _me_. That you always come  _back_  to me.” He lets himself flop back down on the bed, as defenseless and open as he can make himself. If part of Jamie's strength is the titanium defenses she has around herself, then part of David's is his lack of those defenses. He's never had anything to hide from her, nor any wish to hide. “And if, in the past ten years, you haven't noticed how my eyes—my entire being lights up whenever you enter a room, then maybe you should get your eyes checked.“  
  
  
Jamie gapes, round-eyed like a startled gosling. “I'm . . . no expert on 'normal', but aren't people who get engaged supposed to get to know each other an' shit, first? Have a relationship, fall in love. . . .”  
  
  
“James, we've known each other literally all our lives. We've been having sex since we were fifteen. Your dad keeps hinting that I should marry you, if only just to keep other people away—not that that's like to happen.” For all that Uncle Jim sleeps around, he nearly goes apoplectic when Jamie even alludes to her conquests. Which she does just to tick him off. She and Uncle H get a big kick out of that. “As for the in love-part . . . I've been there since we were twelve.”  
  
  
“Bull _shit_ , you have  _not_ ,” Jamie scoffs, and David raises his eyebrows. After a few seconds, that perplexed look is back, times ten. “Nuh-uh!”  
  
  
“Yuh-huh.” David sits up again and pulls Jamie into his arms. Kisses her check and her neck, her collarbone and shoulder. “I'm in love with you. I want to be married to you, and spend my life that way. I  _don't_  want you to  _not_  have sex with other people, I just want  _you_. To be irreplaceable in your heart. To be the one you come home to.”  
  
  
“David, babe,” Jamie breathes, suffering the kisses for a moment longer before cupping his face in her hands and looking into his eyes. Hers are regretful, but determined. “I  _know_  you at least as well as you know me. You're into all that hearts and flowers, happy-sappy stuff you grew up with--”  
  
  
“I'm into  _you_.”  
  
  
Jamie shakes her head, and kisses him right between his eyebrows. “Maybe you think you are, Boo-Boo. But take a good look at my parents crazy, abnormal relationship.  _That_ 's what I expect from a marriage. Is that really what  _you_  want from a marriage? Can you really  _handle_  that, and _me_?”  
  
  
Her tone says she doubts both the former and the latter. And she's perhaps right to, though in this case, maybe just this case, she's wrong.  
  
  
(“Despite her name, and a thick outer plating of Kirk, Jamie's Hikaru Sulu's daughter. By which I mean, she's fuckin' unhinged and prone to aggressive, even violent behavior,” Dad'd gone on plainly, leveling a stern look at David, in case chivalry made him interrupt. But if Jamie is Hikaru Sulu's daughter, then David is Pavel Chekov's, and he's always listened more than he's spoken. “Which ain't to say she don't have a big heart, a keen mind, and both her fathers' fearlessness and loyalty. Ain't sayin' I don't love that little girl like blood kin, and wouldn't lay down my life for her, if called. But  _you're_  my baby, Dave. I want you to understand, as much as you can, what you're getting into, lovin' her like you do.  _Marriage_  is a whole 'nother level of love and commitment altogether.”  
  
  
“I understand, Dad,” David'd said, smiling. And he could tell Dad didn't believe he did, but that was okay. Only time would tell, would prove that, in the end, David knows Jamie better than anyone ever will. “I love her. I always have. And I want to marry her, before Starfleet separates us.”  
  
  
Dad'd sighed. Then smiled a little, looking wistful and sad. He always looks that way when Starfleet assigned he or Papa away from Earth. Pining, though David knows not to call it that. “You know, you wouldn't believe how much you remind me of your Papa, right now: two stupid kids bent on marryin' people ain't suitable for marryin'. But I can't say you don't know your own mind and heart. You've always been wise, in that respect . . . so what in hell're you doin' waitin' around for permission from a couple of cantankerous ol' farts like him an' me?  _Go on_ , boy, and sweep that girl off her feet! And comm me, and lemme know how it went!”)  
  
  
David takes Jamie's hands and pulls them over his shoulders, till her arms are wrapped around him, and their foreheads are touching. “Oh, I can handle you. All day, every day. Twice on Sundays. Though if you ever set your three-way sights on Auntie Christine, I'll take a pass.”  
  
  
“Cowardly lame-ass. Huh. I haven't said yes, you know.” Each word is a mini-kiss, and Jamie's body feels both exciting and familiar against his own.  
  
  
“No . . . but you will.” He kisses Jamie tenderly, softly. And to her credit, she lets the kiss stay that way for a surprisingly long time, before going for his tonsils. Laughing, he lets Jamie push him down to the bed again.  
  
  
David searches Jamie's eyes. She's tired—they both are. But unlike David, who tries to catch up on lost sleep, Jamie tends to forgo it until she can't. She says she's simply not bored enough to waste her time  _sleeping_.  
  
  
Her fingers slide up into his hair, tugging on it. A soft, frustrated sigh puffs into his mouth. It tastes like apples and commissary lasagna, not  _gagh_ , and he's almost disappointed. Almost. “Dunno why the fuck you straighten it, Daves. It looks better curly.”  
  
  
“It's either straighten, or shave. I get sick of hearing how much I look like Papa. Except for the goddamn hair, I look like Dad.”  
  
  
“Only, like, four feet shorter, and not all buff and manly, like Uncle Len is,” she's probably wearing that scary-horny grin that makes her look  _exactly_  like Uncle Jim, and David groans. That mental image is just  _not_  what he needed right now.  
  
  
“Look, I know you 'like 'em older', but if you ever have, or ever do fantasize about my Dad,  _never_ tell me about it, 'kay? I'm putting that in the pre-nup.”  
  
  
“Aw, poor Wavey-Davey.” Jamie pins his hands above his head. Her eyes are shining, and her smile is as big and goonish as her laugh. “Never fear. Just so happens I prefer my  _men_  baby-faced and cuddly. With very curly hair.”  
  
  
David screws his face up into a scowl, and lowers his voice slightly. “Damnit, Jamie, I'm a PoliSci and Governance focus, not a barber!”  
  
  
Jamie snorfles, goofy and lovely, and he puts his hands on the backs of her thighs sliding them up to her ass. And with just a  _leeeeeeetle_  maneuvering and cooperation, he'll be in her, in perfect wethottight _god_. . . .  
  
  
“C'mon,” he murmurs, trying to roll them over. She prevents him easily, rolling out of his arms and to her feet. Then she has the nerve to stand there, arms akimbo, naked as the days she was born—inconveniently out of reach--chuckling all low and evil. “Asshole. Get back here. I want you.”  
  
  
“No  _shit_. Look at you, so hard, and so fucking pretty—you've got the most beautiful cock I've ever seen, have I ever told you that?” Jamie asks seriously. David closes his eyes and sighs. She picks the worst moments to come over sincere. “Anyway. Turnabout, remember? You already fucked me, so, on your stomach, babe.”  
  
  
“I should've known. Jeez, why're you so obsessed with fucking me, lately?” David grumbles, though it's grumbling that's purely on autopilot. It never does to give Jamie her way without putting up some kind of fight. Not that life's been so fight-free for her. It hasn't. With the exception of her family's love, and of course David's, she's had to fight tooth and nail uphill for everything she has. At this stage of the game, the only things she even gets out of bed for, are the ones she has to  _strive_  for.  
  
  
This is something David's noticed since elementary school. Jamie may not have asked for the hard road, but it's the road she was made for, and she'll damn sure charge up it, phasers a-blazin', taking no prisoners.  
  
  
The tip of Jamie's finger, warm, teasing, and calloused, runs slowly down his cock and he opens his eyes. Jamie's watching her finger like a woman hypnotized, and when David bends one knee in subtle but unmistakable invitation, she meets his gaze. Doesn't smile or mug, like she normally would, and it's momentarily worrying.  
  
  
“James?”  
  
  
“I want you every way I can have you, David,” she says, and he flushes all over. Not from modesty, but from the offhanded way Jamie has of completely rearranging his heart without even trying. To cover said blush and beflusterment, rolls onto his stomach—lifting up so Jamie can shove a pillow under his hips. “Look at you . . . your ass is at least as fine as Auntie Christine's.”  
  
  
“Gee, than—yiiiy!” David glares over his shoulder at a ridiculously innocent looking Jamie, who's smiling piously, like she hasn't just smacked his ass hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. He pillows his head on his arms and advises himself to have patience. They'll be doing this for at least the next one hundred years, if they're lucky. “You're either fucking me, or spanking me, Troubs. My ass can't take both in one night.”  
  
  
“Can't  _yet_ , you mean. I don't believe in no-win scenarios,” Jamie says, smoothing her hand over, then kissing what's probably a red hand-print. “But yeah. Some boundaries are for pushing, not crashing through. Forgive me?”  
  
  
David closes his eyes and is very, very determined not to turn into a random puddle of goo, just because Jamie's stumbling across words that go straight to his heart. “I always do. C'mon.” He spreads his legs, and almost immediately, lube-slick fingers are brushing him tentatively then more insistently, before one pushes its way slowly in. He lets out a held breath, and bears down, tired of waiting for his body adjust and all but  _forcing_  it to relax. “More. I'm ready.”  
  
  
“Not yet, you're not. I'm not gonna risk hurting you like that ever again, so be patient and stop fucking whining.” Serious voice. Jamie's never as serious about anything, as she is about preparation, but especially  _this_  preparation. After their disastrous first time trying this . . . she's never anything less than fanatically thorough about stretching him.  
  
  
(And the trip to the nurse's station hadn't been so thrilling and wonderful that it was worth repeating twice in a lifetime, let alone twice in one year. Jamie'd been furious with herself and apologetic and solicitous with him. Wouldn't so much as hold his hand for almost a month afterward.)  
  
  
So David holds his peace. Lets his desire be made plain through clenching his muscles and moaning  _yes_ es and  _please, more_ s, knowing that nothing he says'll make Jamie move any faster. Lets his body relax at its own pace, and tries to enjoy the slow, incremental way Jamie opens his body. Not a hard thing to do, when her fingers find his prostate.  
  
  
“Jesus, hold still,  _Boo-Boo_! God, and you call  _me_  a slut!” That serious composure is cracking a little bit, hints of strain running through it. David laughs breathlessly, still seeing stars and humping his pillow.  
  
  
“I'm not  _a_  slut, I'm  _James D. Sulu_ 's slut.”   
  
  
The fingers freeze. He glances over his shoulder. Can't see much but Jamie's arm and leg, in his periphery. “I . . . oh, fuck, that . . . is possibly the hottest thing anyone's ever said to me.”  
  
  
“Your stretched, decidedly impatient, cock-hungry slut of a fiance. Who could do with a smidgen of being fucked. Hint-hint.”  
  
  
The fingers go bye-bye, and are missed, though not much, considering what's going to replace them. “Okay, now,  _that_ , is possibly--”  
  
  
“Idiot.” David lays his head on his arms again, satisfied that his point's been taken. “Which one're you gonna use.”  
  
  
Jamie leans down to whisper in his ear, humid and low. “That depends on what you need, tonight: wand, plug, beads, vibe?”  
  
  
David represses a smirk. “Hmm . . . in that case, I think the DuraFlex.”  
  
  
“Jesus Christ's tennis shoes--Daves, are you sure?”  
  
  
“Double-sure. Unless you've got another fabricated cock that comes with a bio-adhesive harness and a five jillion different vibrating speeds.”  
  
  
“Well, actually. . . .”  
  
  
“Chop-chop. Bottom drawer, under my socks, in with the other toys.”  
  
  
“You keep that beast in your sock-drawer? How romantical of you.”  
  
  
“ _James_.”  
  
  
“Sir, yes, sir!” She snaps an attention so crisp, he can hear it, and climbs off him to go rooting around his drawer—no doubt tossing socks and boxers across the room and onto Krish's bed—in search of the DuraFlex.  
  
  
They haven't used it in months and months, since the nurse's station incident. In retrospect, they never should've started off with something that big or thick. Or motion-y. Or curvy. In the aftermath, Jamie'd wanted to toss it down the reclamator, but David had stopped her. Kept the damn thing, knowing that there'd be a time they'd want each other this way bad enough to overcome their fears and reservations.  
  
  
“Stupid adhesive strips, fucking childproo—got it!” Jamie exclaims, then leans over David, the warmth of her arms, thighs, and torso chasing away the last chill of apprehension. She kisses the back of his head. “This beast's a fucking hassle, but it self-lubes, self-cleans,  _and_  has nine vibrating styles and thirteen speeds—bunch of other stuff, too, nothing but the best for my Boo-Boo, but I lost the fucking brochure--”  
  
  
“ _Jamie_. . . .”  
  
  
“Sorry, sorry.” The tip of the thing presses at his opening, and . . . it's  _huge_. Easily a jillion times larger than anything Jamie's used on him in the past seven months. He doesn't know what he wants more: to squirm away from it, or squirm back on to it.  
  
  
Jamie makes a few tentative prods—nothing so ambitious as a thrust—and sighs, a hot gust of air on David's shoulder. “Ya gotta relax, babe. I don't wanna hurt you. Please relax?”  
  
  
“I'm trying, just . . . go slow.”  
  
  
“As slow as you need me to go.” Then Jamie swears and David hisses as the first inch slides into him, not exactly pleasantly, but without hurting him, either. Not  _much_ , anyway. Not like last time. Jamie's thighs are quivering not from strain, but from restraint, and wherever their bodies touch is slippery with sweat. “Gonna give you everything you need, David, whatever you need. . . .”  
  
  
And so on, and so on, till every movement is  _not_  an ache David's suffering, but an ache that he craves more of. Is moaning and squirming to  _get_  more of, up on his hands and knees with Jamie holding his hips to keep him more or less still as she carefully advances and retreats.  
  
  
When she's finally seated seven inches of thick, fabricated cock in him, and her pelvis is flush against his ass, she kisses his shoulder-blade, and whispers: “Okay?”  
  
  
“More than.  _Move_.”  
  
  
And she does. Not as fast as David might like, but probably about as fast as is wise, one hand on his hip, the other on his cock, not stroking, but clamped down, as if to keep him from coming. For all the good it'll do. He can feel this orgasm building in every cell of his body, waiting to explode outward. He just hopes he's still there when the smoke clears.  
  
  
“Gonna get you a cock ring, baby, one in black leather. Hell, one in every color I can find. One that vibrates,” Jamie promises, giving his cock another squeeze that shouldn't feel good, but with his prostate being made into mincemeat, having his left thumb removed with an old spork might feel good. Hell, even a  _Klingon opera_  might feel good. Jamie's hand, fantastic under any circumstances, now feels like--  
  
  
“GodohGodohGodoh _God_!” David babbles, near tears. Jamie's set the damn thing up to what _feels_  like the highest vibration setting, but probably isn't. It is, however, enough—coupled with Jamie's suddenfastpunishingperfect stroking—to make him come harder than he ever has before. For the few moments right before he does, there's nothing but an awareness of himself on some high precipice, about to fall over, and a wail that's too desperate and broken-open to be Jamie's. Anyway, Jamie's still talking. In fact, she'd never shut up:  
  
  
“--like that don't you take it so  _pretty_  take it take it all can't get enough of you David David David yeah baby oh  _fuck_  fuck yeah I'll marry you marry the  _shit_  outta you make you mine  _forever_  you want that wanna be mine oh fuck oh  _David_ \--”  
  
  
And it's a good thing David doesn't need to hear any more, because the universe is obliterated, taking him with it, and it's  _eons_  before it slowly puts itself together, starts to reknit. . . .  
  
  
The very first thing he's aware of is arms around him, even though there's currently no  _him_  for arms to be around.  
  
  
As the universe rebuilds itself, and him with it, he realizes that even though  _everything_  had ended, Jamie Sulu had, as always, still been there, like some self-perpetuating deity. Keeping him safe and holding him till everything makes sense again. Till David realizes that he's laying on his side, half sprawled across her. That the room's lit only by glow-sticks once more, and he's been staring across the room at Krish's pet Bulgallian rat, Mr. Nibbles, in its triple-reinforced glass tank.  
  
  
Mr. Nibbles glares right back, clearly unimpressed, and David sticks his tongue out, turning his face to Jamie's neck and sighing contentedly. The universe has been remade. Which makes this an excellent time to go to sleep.  
  
  
Soft lips move on his temple in a series of kisses, and a husky laugh sends shivers up his still-forming spine. “So, I didn't bore you too bad, did I?”  
  
  
“I think . . . it's safe to say . . . I could stand to do that . . . some more. . . .”  
  
  
“ _Oh_ , yeah. That was  _perfect_ , babe.  _You_  were perfect,” she whispers, kissing him again, her voice shaking for a moment. But the tremor is gone so quick, David can't be completely certain he heard it. “Fuck, it was almost like--like I was reaming your  _dad_. . . .”  
  
  
“Uncalled for . . . you fucking  _douchebag_!”  
  



End file.
